The Rustler. Linda Lael Miller
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he made himself a sandwich and walked through to the little parlor beyond the kitchen. He hadn’t passed much time in a real house since he’d left the homeplace for the last time.
His ma had cried that day. Begged him to stay and work the farm.
He’d ridden out instead. He’d had better things to do, he’d thought back then, than plowing fields and milking cows. No, he’d preferred to rob trains with Pappy.
“Fool,” he said aloud, admiring but not touching the framed photographs set up on a wooden table near the windows. Lark and Rowdy, posing solemnly on either side of a Grecian pillar. Little Hank, bare-ass naked on a fur rug, in the saddle in front of a grinning Rowdy, cradled in Lark’s arms in a rocking chair.
The soreness in Wyatt’s throat got worse, and he had to blink a couple of times. He retreated from the row of pictures, scanned the rest of the room. There were two other doors, one open, one closed.
The open door led to the bathroom, a swanky one with a flush toilet and a copper boiler to heat water, just as Rowdy had said. Wyatt stepped inside the small room and looked into the mirror above the pedestal sink. He needed a shave, he decided, rubbing the dark stubble on his face. Rowdy had left behind a razor and a soap mug, and the tub looked mighty inviting.
Just go, he told himself. Saddle up Sugarfoot, ask some neighbor to look after Reb and Lark’s mare, and go.
He thought about supper at Sarah’s, sitting across a table from her, just for one meal. He’d make sure Langstreet didn’t pose any kind of serious threat to her, and leave in the morning.
First thing in the morning, for sure.
No matter what.
In the meantime, he might as well go into the jailhouse, in case somebody came by needing a lawman.
He was amused to find, when he approached the desk, that Gideon had left a note after all. Scrawled on the back of a Wanted poster and carefully centered in the middle of the blotter.
Don’t steal anything. If you do, I’ll come after you for sure. Gideon Yarbro.
Wyatt chuckled. He had no doubt that the kid was sincere. Two lawmen in the family now, Pappy, he thought. And me wearing a badge, too. Guess you must be wondering where you went wrong.
* * *
THE AFTERNOON, BLESSEDLY quiet in terms of business, passed at an excruciatingly slow pace. Sarah spent the time examining the books—column after column of figures penned in her distinctive handwriting, every cent accounted for—and wondered if Charles would believe the only lie she could come up with on such short notice.
Her father’s eyesight had been very poor before Dr. Venable had arranged for a pair of spectacles to be sent up from Phoenix, and she’d fallen into the habit of managing the ledgers for him.
Flimsy, but it might work.
Carefully, she recorded the statement in her own small book, which she carried in the pocket of her skirt. Ever since lying had become a necessary art, Sarah had taken pains to record the fibs she’d told, both for the sake of continuity in conversations with others and, she supposed, as a form of penance.
God recorded both sins and virtues in the Book of Life, according to the preachers. Maybe He’d understand, on Judgment Day, that writing down the lies she told was a form of honesty in and of itself, convoluted as the idea seemed, even to Sarah herself.
More likely, He’d order her flung into the Lake of Fire, immediately if not sooner. After all, God hated a liar, didn’t He?
Sarah sighed. If the Lord was as cranky and hard to please as Brother Hickey and his ilk made Him out to be, she couldn’t hope to get along with Him anyhow.
When closing time finally came—neither Thomas nor her father had returned from the visit to Dr. Venable, who was probably subjecting poor Thomas to all manner of painful cures—Sarah hung the sign in the door, locked up, and headed for home.
She’d been a fool to invite Wyatt Yarbro to take a meal under her roof—he was an outlaw, badge or no badge—but it would be better than being alone, for all practical intents and purposes, with Charles Langstreet. Owen and her father would also be present, but both of them were children, despite the vast difference in their ages.
A new worry rose up whole in her mind as she approached her front gate and stooped to pat Mehitabel, the three-legged cat, who sometimes came by to lap up a bowl of cream or sleep contentedly behind the cookstove when the weather turned cold.
What might Ephriam say when he saw Owen? Once, she could have depended on her father’s discretion, but given the state of his mind, he might blurt out something the boy wasn’t prepared to hear, or understand.
A chill rippled in the pit of her stomach.
Owen.
She could adapt to almost anything, including losing control of the Stockman’s Bank, if matters came to that pass, but seeing Owen hurt in any way would be beyond toleration.
Charles claimed he’d brought the boy to Stone Creek because he could not remain at school, or at home with Mrs. Langstreet; he’d simply had no other choice. Caught off guard, Sarah had accepted the explanation the way someone at the top of a burning staircase would accept a wet blanket. Now, with the storm of her thoughts abating a little, she knew there had to be another reason. Charles could have left Owen with his aging mother, prevailed upon one of his three married sisters.
Instead, Owen was there, in Stone Creek.
Why?
Certainly not because Charles felt any kindly inclination toward her. She’d begged him for photographs of Owen over the years, receiving only one, sent letter after letter to the child, revealing nothing, always signing the long missives with the spinsterly affection of an aunt. There had been no replies, but given Owen’s tender age, that wasn’t surprising.
Sarah blinked, realizing she was still standing at the gate, Mehitabel curling into her hem, and worked the latch. The hinges creaked as she passed through.
Are you my aunt Sarah? Owen had asked earlier, in the bank, his eyes wide and trusting.
What had Charles—or, more worrisome yet, his wife, Marjory—told the boy about his “aunt”?
The front door opened as Sarah approached, and Doc appeared in the gap. He was a stoutly built man with gentle eyes, and an old friend as well as physician to her father. The two men had met in the army, serving under General Grant, Ephriam as an infantry captain, Jacob Venable as a surgeon. Ephriam had sustained a bayonet wound to his right shoulder during a skirmish with Confederate cavalrymen, and Venable had tended him. Having a number of things in common, but primarily a shared passion for books, they’d swapped whatever rare and treasured volumes they managed to get their hands on. Both men had been at Appomattox when Lee surrendered, and taken off their hats to the living legend as he left Grant’s presence, proud even in defeat. Every winter they sat smoking in front of the fire in the Tamlins’ parlor, reliving that day and the events that led up to it.
Now, looking up at Doc, with his graying beard and dignified bearing, Sarah thought he resembled General Lee, for all that he, like her father, had been a Union man, born and bred.
Doc was also the only person who knew about her book of lies. She’d confided in him, one late night, while keeping a vigil by a dying neighbor’s bedside.
“Is Papa ill?” she asked.
“I dosed him with laudanum and put him to bed,” Doc said matter-of-factly. “He was in another one of his states—asking after your mother.”
Sarah swallowed hard, blinked back tears. She felt relieved that her father wouldn’t be at the supper table, unpredictable as he was. She also felt guilty for being relieved.
Doc took a seat in the porch swing and patted the space beside him. “Sit down, Sarah,” he said gently.
“I’ve got to fix supper for company and—”